


you stood there in front of me just close enough to touch

by thesarcasticone



Series: all i've ever known [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Dance, Pre-Canon, This is a series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 11:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21136025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesarcasticone/pseuds/thesarcasticone
Summary: Brienne as a child had been tall and plain. As a young maiden she had not managed to grow out of her predicament. As a child she had not given much importance to the snickers, or the sneers. She had listened to them, she had been aware of them. A part of Brienne had always held on to the hope they would eventually stop; to the hope she would eventually become less awkward and less mannish. They didn’t. She hadn’t. Connington had made sure Brienne was well aware of it.Or: Renly arrives at Evenfall Hall, there is a feast, there is a dance, and Jaime takes notice the Evenstar's heir hasn't truly mastered the art of wearing a dress.





	you stood there in front of me just close enough to touch

**Author's Note:**

> Again, thank you so much to everyone who reads this little experiment of mine! 
> 
> This is part 3. Four years after the last meeting. 
> 
> Again, all mistakes are mine.

She didn’t argue, didn’t complain, didn’t react. She stood in the middle of her room; tall, broad, with large lips and freckled skin. Too coarse for lace, too ungainly for silk; she subjected herself to the pick and prodding of her maids, under the watchful eye of Septa Roelle. 

She had never felt comfortable donning a dress, had always managed to find herself tripping over her legs; squeezed in dainty little things which would be made with far too much anticipation and would thus always end up fitting smaller than required. 

Brienne as a child had been tall and plain. As a young maiden she had not managed to grow out of her predicament. As a child she had not given much importance to the snickers, or the sneers. She had listened to them, she had been  _ aware _ of them. A part of Brienne had always held on to the hope they would eventually stop; to the hope she would eventually become less awkward and less mannish. They didn’t. She hadn’t. Connington had made sure Brienne was well aware of it.

“Child you could at least pretend to not look so miserable. Lord Renly is close to you in age, and a fine man. Not to mention he is the King’s brother and thus has some influence over the crown. Tarth is to make a respectable appearance, and that includes you.”

Her Septa scolded; the woman’s prunish hand giving Brienne’s arm a slight pinch in order to produce a reaction out of the miserable looking girl. 

“No smile or lace will ever make you pretty child, but there is no need for frowning.”

She hadn’t frowned. She hadn’t gesticulated any emotions ever since she’d woken up that morning, already dreading the tedious day ahead readying herself for Lord Renly’s and the court’s arrival. 

“It doesn’t fit.”

“Of course it doesn’t; you seem to grow half an inch each passing day! Lady Brienne, you are no longer a foolish child; you are a maiden flowered, and you need to behave as such. No slouching, no flinching, no stammering…”

The lecture was an old one, one Brienne well knew by both heart and mind. She had not found it fair how ever since her first moon’s blood arrival, everyone around her had started treating her differently. Her dressing in breeches was suddenly frowned upon, her preference for swordplay was reprimanded, and her riding hours were shortened. Brienne had pleaded with her father for her training hours to remain unchanged, but Selwyn had not been able to offer the comfort he had once freely given to his only daughter. 

Brienne hated her moon’s blood and what it had entailed. She missed riding and being allowed to don breeches during dinner. They still allowed Brienne to dress as she pleased during most hours of the day, and Ser Goodwin had argued in her favor in order for her to continue with her sword training; but nonetheless, things  _ were _ different. 

“I’m certain Lord Renly will eventually forget me; must it be so important I interact with him?”

Her Septa laughed, a breathy thing which Brienne knew to be proper of ladies. Brienne’s own laugh was still wild and loud; a rare indulgence, as the days passed and more and more things got taken or schooled away from her. 

“My dear, no one will ever be able to forget you. You’re taller than any boy or man close to you in age. You’re many things you ought not to be child; but forgettable isn’t one of them. Straighten up, girl!”

Brienne obliged, flinching as she took in her form reflected on the wall-length mirror. 

_ ‘Mirrors don’t lie. Boys do, and Knights most of all. Remember that, child.’ _

Brienne just wished the day would pass by as quickly as it could, so she could rip the constricting fabric from her body and be allowed to don her well-worn breeches and tunic once more.

\---------

Jaime could still not conjure up a valid reason for why he had graciously volunteered to accompany the Lord of the Stormlands on his coming out tour through  _ his _ lands. 

Robert had been persistent in his plea that at least one member of the Kinsgaurd should accompany the young Lord on his journey; for the wretched Lord Paramount was his brother and one of his heirs. 

Unsurprisingly, none of the other members of the prestigious and honorable whitecloaks had volunteered their own names. What  _ had _ been surprising, had been when Jaime had spoken up to submit his own for the task. 

When his sister had come into the knowledge of the occurrence, she had been quick to assume the act to be a misfortunate jest on her brother’s part. Upon learning of the veracity of the arrangement, she had proceeded to grant the Knight with the gracious parting gift of a slap; given to Jaime as he had arrived at her chamber door on the day of his departure. 

His sister had gotten angry, and had stubbornly remained so for the entire fortnight he had already been away at sea. The one raven he had dared to send her from the last dingy town they had set port in had been hurriedly sent back -unanswered. 

So, Jaime did not believe to truly know what had prompted him to ensure the rage of his sweet sister; or why she had angered as such. He would be back in King’s Landing in no more than two moon’s turn; they had gone longer without the other before. 

Deep within himself, if he truly took the time to divulge into his mind and try to organize his thoughts and memories, Jaime could somewhat form a vague explanation for his impromptu need to sail along the Stormlands' treacherous waters. He was a Knight, a member of the Kingsguard, but a Knight above all else. And his feet had been itching for a bit of action out on a field for far too long. 

As their ship finally made port, Jaime took his time to admire the island; still as green as he remembered it, with its inhabitants still as slow and as courteous as they had once been. 

Tarth. The Sapphire Isle and home of the Evenstar and his heir. At least this time he already knew not to believe the household staff whenever they claimed the Lady of Tarth as being indisposed with a stomach ache. The memory, one he hadn’t thought about in  _ years _ , came unbidden to the front of his mind, and made Jaime give out an almost amused snort. 

“The feast is set to begin at sunset, my Lords. Just as well, the Evenstar extends his greetings and goodwill wishes, for he will not be able to meet with you at this hour. He will make pleasantries during the actual feast, later tonight.”

It was the same man; still joyful, still loyal, still the same diligent fool he had been on Jaime’s first visit. For some reason, the man’s presence did eventually made Jaime produce a smile of his own. One which was soon replaced with a scowl as the young Lord Paramount of the Stormlands gave a loud and charming laugh towards the companions he had been riding alongside. 

The young Lord was amicable enough, knew what to say and how to say it; at six and ten he was already a master at making people think him better than he truly was and the fact of it irritated Jaime more than not. 

Like his eldest brother, Renly Baratheon had been granted the gift of a fine figure; broad enough to intimidate and lithe enough to efficiently move and gain speed. And just like the second of the Baratheons, the youngest showed no desire for sparring or wielding weapons. 

Jaime cursed himself and his ability of finding himself stuck with companions who neglected the fine exercise of sword fighting during long journeys. He was already seven and twenty and not getting younger; if he wished to maintain and even further his strength, he needed to train more often than not. 

Mayhaps that had been the real reason, Jaime contemplated as they stepped inside the sturdy halls of Evenfall Hall, for his sudden need to escape the confinements of the Red Keep; his need to find himself fighting against a worthy enough opponent. 

No one waited inside the great hall to formally greet the Lord of Storm’s End and Paramount of the Stormlands; only a couple of meager servants and one green squire who was quick to redden upon having received a compliment from the handsome young Lord. 

Jaime scoffed, and had to admit himself disappointed in not having been greeted by the young Lady of the island. The girl was a singularity and one of the more refreshing acquaintances he had made in the last eleven years. 

He wasn’t granted a visual of the young Lady until they were called to attend the organized feast; where upon entering Evenfall’s grand hall, Jaime easily caught sight of her. She was hard to miss; standing taller than every boy and girl around her age, still broad, still awkward, and still as homely looking as she had been at six  _ and _ at nine. The Lady of Tarth looked as uncomfortable as Jaime remembered having last seen her at court. 

The girl grew as red as the colors on her House’s sigil when she was prompted to speak by the ill-looking woman to the girl’s left. 

The Lady of Tarth stammered, her breath hitching at odd places and her voice barely being audible in the midst of the commotion.

It was almost painful to watch, even more so to realize people -her own people- didn’t offer the girl any kind of respite; instead offering her sneers and murmured insults Jaime was sure the Lady could very well hear. 

He had never been tolerant towards people taking advantage of those with an obvious weakness. His mind thought of Tyrion, not much older than the Lady herself; still at Casterly Rock, trying his hardest to further educate himself if only so he could finally be better at something than the rest of them. 

Jaime squirmed uncomfortably in his seat as he got offered a cup of wine and absentmindedly agreed to it. 

\--------

Septa Roelle had given her a very damning lecture following her pitiful display of courtesies when having had to address the gathered party. 

Brienne stood as still as she had during that morning; taking in every word, every sneer, every withheld insult she could see the woman swallowing back. She counted up to ten and then back again as she tried to picture herself back on her horse, wielding her favorite tourney sword; or sitting under her father’s feet, with a book of songs in her hand as she allowed herself to get lost in gallant stories of bravery and adventure. 

It was a common occurence now, to try and lose herself in memories and wistful dreams instead of paying rapt attention to the words which had become her Septa’s new mantra towards her ever since the humiliation which had been Ronnet Connington. It was a tired speech, anyway; one which had been uttered to Brienne almost every other day whenever her awkward gait and fumbling hands failed at whichever delicate task she had been given to perform. 

She wasn’t pretty. She wasn’t witty. She wasn’t a child. She was the Lady of Tarth. She needed to learn how to act her role. 

When Brienne finally got leave to sit down at her given place at the grand table, already starving from having had to skip lunch in order to finish dressing for the evening, she finally allowed her gaze to wander through the highborn guests and smallfolk they had opened up Evenfall Hall to, and who now graced her home’s grand hall. 

She took notice of the handsome young Lord seated by what would eventually be her father’s right; the guest of honor and the reason for all the frivolities and ill-fitting dressings she had been subjecting herself to throughout the day. 

Lord Renly Baratheon of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands was everything her handmaids had claimed the young Lord rumored to have been. Knowing herself to not own any kind of delicate subtlety, Brienne was quick to avert her gaze for fear of having been caught gawking at the handsome Lord, owner of the prettiest of eyes she had ever seen on a man. Brienne could feel her face start getting warm and dreaded having to turn her head upwards while nursing one of her blotched blushes. 

It was a ridiculous reaction, and Brienne knew it; but there hadn’t been many -if any- boys who the young heir had ever considered handsome. It was especially hard to think of someone as anything other than dull, when you continuously ended up beating them to the ground.

But Lord Renly wasn’t one of the thickheaded Tarth boys; he wasn’t even a boy, but a man grown. He was the King’s own brother and, Brienne thought, looked every bit like a King  _ should _ look like. He was tall for his age, even if he was just barely taller than Brienne herself; with a strong build and a strong laugh; with dancing blue eyes and a quick smile which made Brienne’s breath hitch when he threw one of his most charming grins her way. 

Not wanting to over step whichever boundaries she should have known, but couldn’t promptly remember; Brienne moved her gaze to the other side of the hall, where more Lords and Knights laughed and feasted; their voices joyous and unpreoccupied. It was then she caught a glimpse of the glistening white armor, of the golden curls and striking green eyes. 

It was the Kingslayer, in all his scowling glory. Still as golden, still as handsome, still as -odd, as Brienne remembered. He stood out in the joyous crowd, a dichotomy of perfection and uneasiness Brienne felt she somehow understood, but could not fathom the possibility of someone as famed as the Kingslayer, to be. Brienne strangely felt far more intrigued by the sullen, yet amused look on the Knight’s face than by Lord Renly’s charming smiles. A Lord traveling the lands to win the favor of his bannermen, she could understand without much effort. A known oathbreaker and dishonored Knight -and possibly the only person within the royal court who had never openly mocked her, sitting by her table, looking as though he wished to be anywhere but there; that she had much more trouble wrapping her head around. 

The careful and premeditated way in which Brienne had averted her gaze from the Lord Paramount seemed to disappear from her mind as she openly continued to stare the Kingslayer’s way; her blue eyes blinking in rapt curiosity. The man spoke when spoken to and would usually respond with the same casual charm and command Lord Renly seemed to be gifted at exuding; but the Kingslayer would retreat into himself when allowed, taking casual sips of wine as his gaze clouded with something which Brienne felt herself still too young to fully comprehend. 

Her persistent staring eventually earned Brienne a meeting of eyes. Amused green meeting startled blue from over a few seats over. 

Jaime felt a gaze upon him. It took longer than he would have liked to finally find the source of the persistent stare, but couldn’t help but feel pleasantly surprised when his eyes met her startled blue orbs firmly fixed on him. 

Brienne felt herself going red once again, and was quick to lower gaze back to the meal in front of her; trying to pretend she hadn’t just spent the better part of her evening trying to solve the conundrum which the Kingslayer represented to her. She feared she would eventually get a headache.

Even with her eyes fixed on the dessert having been served before her, she was able to make out a movement given by a white-armored man and knew it to have belonged to the Kingsgaurd Knight -the Kingslayer. 

Goblet turned upwards as if he were giving a toast, Brienne scowled as she came to realize the act to be one laced with mockery. His laugh riveted through the great hall, but somehow only Breinne managed to feel utterly consumed by the sound of it; finding herself unable to draw a proper breath until her Septa had come up to Brienne to remind her it was not proper to ignore the guest of honor for so long a time. 

Brienne prayed to the Seven for strength to continue on with the night, for there was still a dance to be had after dinner and she was still expected to diligently participate in the night’s festivities as Lady of the island until her father arrived from the mainland.

When Lord Selwyn Tarth finally did arrive to Evenfall Hall, his head shining with sweat at having been hurried along the docks and roads; Brienne was finally able to give out a relieved sigh. Selwyn apologized for his absence, showing his dutiful respect towards the Lord Paramount and congratulating the young Lord on his successful tour across the Stormlands. Brienne offered a loving and relieved smile to her father and was rewarded in kind with a smile of his own, a soft and almost saddened gesture which Brienne was now growing used to receiving from him. 

With her father back inside Evenfall, and dinner now finished, Brienne felt herself ease as she came to realize that she would not be expected to raise her voice again. There would only be the dance to endure through, and with the promise of singers and music and her favorite songs getting played, Brienne prayed it would not be such a tedious feat.

\----------

She still hated dresses, that much Jaime could tell as he watched the Lady of Tarth move around the Hall with an expression so alike Tyrion’s whenever he was forced to ride. 

People danced around him; young couples with joy on their faces, old couples with contempt in theirs, untroubled children who still did not know how to move across a dance floor bumping happily into some of the most enraptured of couples. It was sickening, and joyous, and Jaime found himself envying the sheer simplicity of it all. 

\-----

Brienne hated dances, hated dresses, hated everything in which the night had transformed into. She desperately wished for her tourney sword, or even better yet, a proper sword; one which would scare that little weasel looking boy who had dared to ask her if she was sure she was a girl. She was the Lady of Evenfall Hall, the Lady of Tarth; and still, that meant nothing to snottish boys who figured their only way of entertainment was to try to get her to anger. 

She hadn’t granted them the pleasure; her Septa’s words coming to haunt her as Brienne had fisted her hand in a ball ready to punch the boy’s impish grin off his face. 

_ ‘You’re not a child anymore, my Lady; you’re a maiden flowered and must behave as such.’ _

Followed by her own father’s words, an echo of the soothing mantra  _ he _ had taken to grace his daughter with ever since Ronnet Connigton had thrown at a rose at her feet. 

_ ‘Words will never truly hurt you, Brienne. The truth can never hurt you either, as long as you are well aware of what it is.’  _

She  _ did _ look like a boy, she  _ did _ look like she belonged in some traveling mummers band. But she wasn’t, and she  _ didn’t _ . She was the Lady of Tarth, and should behave as such. If not for her own benefit, then for her father’s; who had keenly watched as Brienne had dismissed the boy and had turned away from the scene, with tears welling up in her eyes which she had dared herself to not let fall. 

“It has come to my attention that we’ve not been graced with having to watch the Lady of the island dance tonight, or am I mistaken in my observations?”

His voice startled her, making all her words flee from her mind. 

Out of the entire room, Brienne would have never thought the Kingslayer would find a reason for trying to converse with her. She was just shy of four and ten and had successfully avoided court throughout most of her life -except for that one time. Her conversation skills were practically nonexistent and her courtesies seemed to have left her entirely as she fixed the man with a frown rather than the obligated curtsey she should have given. 

Jaime did raise his eyebrows upon receiving such an odd greeting, but was quick to give the young maiden a chuckle; one which held more amusement than actual pity.

The amusement is his tone enraptured Brienne enough to not flee from the potential catastrophe trying to converse with the Knight presented to become. “I assure you, Ser -I won’t be easily angered. So you should be wise to promptly stop your attempt at mocking me.”

“I wasn’t mocking you, my Lady; forgive me if I gave the impression. But I was speaking truth, was I not? You haven’t danced all night.”

Brienne felt an unmaidenly blush start to form; the only habit of hers, Septa Roelle felt a strong hatred towards, and which Brienne was starting to share the woman’s feelings towards. 

“No, but it doesn't matter; I enjoy listening to the songs much more. And I am afraid I wouldn’t be an adequate partner. I’m not -graceful on my feet.”

A half lie, but she hoped it satisfied the Knight enough to leave her be. It didn’t. 

“I’m not sure you actually remember who I am.” He supplied; trying, but failing miserably at hiding his bewildered tone. 

“You’re the Kingslayer,” the words ripped from her mouth before she could filter them; her blue eyes going wide with embarrassment. She wasn’t ever supposed to address the Knight by that name. 

To Brienne’s surprise, the Kingsgaurd Knight did not look offended upon her lack of propriety, but looked rather pleased with the description she gave of him. He had already been the cause of an oncoming headache even before he had started speaking to her; Ser Jaime Lannister was quickly becoming a cramping pain. 

“You’re Ser Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock. You’re a Knight of the Kingsgaurd. You’re the brother to the queen and one of the best swordsman in the kingdom.” She waited for him to give her some sort of answer; a scowl, a laugh, anything but the unnerving silence as he contemplated whatever it was he was planning on doing. “You’re also the one who kept my secret and prevented my getting caught and reprimanded for my foolishness when Lord Stannis visited the island almost eight years ago.”

Ah, so she did remember. “So you do remember.”

“Vaguely, Ser.” She then remembered she still hadn’t curtseyed, and -dishonored knight or not, he was still a member of the Kingsgaurd and deserved the courtesy. 

But he stopped her before she could further embarrass herself. “There is no need, Lady Brienne; I’ve seen you try and curtsy. Trust me, my Lady; we’ll both feel better if you forgone the action altogether.”

Brienne blushed and had the decency to at least look embarrassed. 

Except Jaime hadn’t meant to embarrass the poor girl. The gods knew he was getting old, but he still remembered how it felt to be young and be deprived of having the thing you most desired. In his case it had been his sister’s sweet embraces; in the Lady’s, it was the opportunity to have someone treat her with respect. 

Jaime cleared his throat and hoped he wouldn’t further her embarrassment by what he was about to suggest. Although he had a feeling the girl would still be embarrassed even if he  _ were _ some striking young Knight from one of the songs she claimed to enjoy so much.  _ A Knight you had once dared to dream of becoming. _

“My Lady; I know I am not the charming young Knight I once fancied myself being, or one sung about in songs. I know you’ve already been taught to judge and label me as an oathbreaker and a man without honor. But I am still a Knight; one who does remember he once vowed to serve and protect the innocent -even grant a maid a dance or two. So it would be my honor, my Lady, if you would grant me this next piece?”

_ What?  _ Ser Jaime Lannister was asking  _ her _ to dance. What kind of trickery was this? 

_ ‘Words are nothing. Words mean nothing. Your mirror holds the truth, child; always remember that.’ _

_ ‘He is to be betrothed to you, child; and you will look and act presentable for this meeting.’ _

_ ‘That’s all you’re going to ever get from me, my  _ Lady _ .’ _

They all flashed through her mind; words of caution, words of duty, words of insult. But Ser Jaime Lannister still held his hand out; green eyes fixed and unflinching. 

“I-I-I don’t. I’ve never danced before, Ser.”

Huh, neither had Jaime. 

“Neither have I, my Lady. See, we already have as much in common.”

The Knight continued to hold out his hand; green eyes expectant of whatever reaction she would give him. Brienne swallowed her nerves and fears. She wanted to wield a true sword someday; getting through a dance with Ser Jaime should not  _ -would not _ frighten her. 

The Knight was older than any of the boys who had ever dared to ask for her company during a dance. Most of them having had laughed in her face as she had graciously accepted their offers, having thought them honest and true proposals. He was also one of the most handsome men who currently graced Evenfall Hall with their presence; and although Brienne had taken to fantasizing about being genuinely asked for a dance by the handsome and young Lord Paramount, she found herself wearily accepting the dishonored Knight’s offer. 

Brienne was sure they appeared ridiculous; the handsome golden Knight and the homely, awkward looking Lady of Tarth. Brienne tried to gather as much courage as she could to not scurry away as she heard the unavoidable snickers and snorts. She tried to maintain a proud and unwavering face as she prepared for Ser Jaime to join along with the mocking. 

He didn’t. He took hold of her hand and Brienne felt her eyes go wide as she took notice the Knight had not been lying about having never danced before; his own movements awkward and unsure. She couldn’t stop the small grin which threatened to come upon her face as she came to realize she had an advantage over him. She had never been  _ asked _ to dance, but she had been taught the different steps and melodies by both her father and her Septa. 

“You’re still in training.” His voice startled Brienne from her memories. 

The comment was odd enough on its own, but the fact that the Knight had seemed to have uttered it without any hint of contempt, piqued Brienne’s interest. She lifted her gaze from their feet up to his face, enjoying the fact the man still towered over her ungainly frame. 

Brienne suddenly became aware of the closeness between them. She had never been so near a man before, not without having thrown a punch at him first. Even then, she had only ever fought boys and snotty squires -never Knights. The sudden proximity and the sudden acknowledgement of it made Brienne’s head spin. 

Her senses felt suddenly overwhelmed as they never had before. She could smell him, she could hear him, she could feel him, she could see him. He truly was ethereally beautiful. Brienne’s breath caught in her throat and her answer died on her lips as she found the words escaping her mind. What was wrong with her? 

She had astonishing eyes, Jaime came to realize as she turned to finally lock her gaze with his own; eyes which spoke louder than any of the words she ever gave. 

She was scared, confused, weary, sad. 

Jaime shouldn’t have been able to read her emotions as well as he did; he couldn’t even remember the last time he had been able to successfully decipher his sister’s feelings by simply looking into her green orbs.  _ No one _ should ever wear their emotions so plainly for the world to see, it would only serve to bring them inevitable heartbreak. 

“Training, Ser?” She was finally able to breathe out as she willed her feet to move and her mind to settle. 

“Yes, your hands are still calloused. You’re still wielding swords, tourney ones; I dare assume.” 

Brienne begrudgingly nodded; her face scrunching up in confusion which on any other young maiden it would have made her look adoring, but only served in making the Lady of Tarth’s face look far more homely than it usually was. 

“I’ve gotta say, my Lady; I am starting to feel cheated -conveniently lied to. Which is a shame, for I considered you to be one of the more refreshing and honest of acquaintances I’ve recently made.”

Her confused expression only grew, and prompted Jaime to continue on.

“The first time I met you, you were wearing breeches and a dirty face; you had been hiding from your household staff inside the weaponry. You handled my sword with rapt and impressive care, even more than my own squire had ever done. But on these last two times we’ve had the fortune to have crossed paths, you’ve been dressed in gowns and laces -both uncomfortable, if my memory doesn’t betray me? Yet you hide rough calloused hands and a quickness of foot which one can only acquire from either dancing, or fighting.” Her blotched, reddened blush served as confirmation enough. 

“I feel like we haven’t had the chance to properly meet, Lady Brienne. Or am I mistaken in presuming that you’d much rather be wearing a pair of breeches, a tunic and wielding a tourney sword at this very moment?”

Brienne gawked at the causality with which the Knight spoke of her, seeming to have also forgotten the most basic of courtesies. To confuse Brienne even further, his forward address of her character only seemed to have finally made Brienne ease into their strained dance. 

“You’re not, Ser.” She almost shamefully admitted. “But it’s not proper for the Lady of the island to hold a feast and ball while donning men’s gear. And it’s not proper for a maiden to wield swords, either.”

She looked more like a man grown of six and ten, than a young maiden. 

“Did your  _ Septa _ tell you that?”

Brienne blushed, again. “I am no longer a child, Ser; I turn four and ten in two months.”

“Yet you still nurse calluses in your hand and squirm uncomfortably in your clothing.” He argued, a single raised eyebrow on his face which almost appeared to have been daring Brienne to retaliate. She could hear his unspoken words with an efficiency which Breinne should have found disconcerting, yet she paid no mind to.  _ ‘You honestly think your age will be enough to change your current predicament?’ _

“I daresay, it would have been quite an honor to have met you tonight donning breeches, my Lady.”

Brienne’s innocent eyes fixed upon his, questions swimming inside the ocean of them. Her honesty was a palpable thing, and Jaime could tell he more than confused the young maiden. He didn’t blame her, for he confused himself more than naught these days. Perhaps the truth behind his rash decision to travel the Stormlands was that which the Lady of Tarth brought to the surface of Jaime’s mind. He was growing tired of the pretense of serving a foolish King and loving an indecisive woman. There was a beauty in honesty and straightforwardness Jaime had not realized he had missed until having been subjected to the sight of one of the most transparent of people trying to mask her reality. 

“You’re a puzzle, Ser Jaime.” The maiden supplied. Shy and clearly bewildered at hearing the sound of her own voice. 

“I’ve been called many things, my Lady; never a puzzle.”

“You’ve been branded a man without honor, a-a- a kingslayer and oathbreaker. You slayed a man you were once sworn to protect, and yet you talk of knighthood with fond eyes and a smile; a-a-and you proceed to genuinely grant  _ me _ a dance.” She whispered with a conflicted voice.

Jaime could tell it was that last feat which confused the maiden most of all; not his history, not his foolish facade, but the fact he had not yet mocked or insulted her in any way. 

“The world is not so simple, Lady Brienne.” He cautiously began, his green eyes firmly fixed upon hers, making sure he had her rapt attention. “It’s not as black and white as the songs recal and stories narrate. People swear oaths they don’t intend to ever keep; people break promises they’d never wished to have made. It does not necessarily make them the monsters we have been taught they should be. Knights can be honorable and cruel, and thieves  _ can _ have honor. The sooner you learn the world is not a song, the less you’ll suffer in life.”

Oh, but hadn’t she already had a taste of the unfairness and cruelty of the world?

Her blue eyes saddened and Jaime cursed her inability to shield her emotions. He would not have minded her being adept at feeding him the silly nonsense maidens were taught to deliver just then, if only to spare his own suddenly conflicted heart. 

“So you see, my Lady; I can be both. An oathbreaker who slew the King he had sworn to protect; and a Knight, who had once vowed to protect the weak and defend the innocent -and to rescue maidens from the dangers of not being asked for a dance during their own feast.” Jaime finished with the softest of smiles he had ever given a person, the occurrence one so rare he couldn’t remember the last time he had expressed such -kinship towards a person. 

The Knight hadn’t been granting Breinne with new information, but the melancholic feeling it produced within her was real and one she couldn’t yet truly let go of. She missed the days when she actually thought to have an understanding of the world around her. His kind and teasing prompt at the end of his sentence served its rightful purpose of clearing the suddenly somber air which had surrounded their conversation. 

Brienne’s young heart skipped a beat as it took in Ser Jaime’s last words and soft smile; the incident almost startling the young maiden, for the sudden occurrence was not one she had ever experienced before. 

As the music ended and both took a step away from the other in order to finish off their dance with the expected bow and curtsey, Brienne granted Jaime with a shy and small smile of her own; still as crooked as he remembered it being. 

She hid mirth behind her courteous, but honest smile; Jaime thought it became the mannish young maid. 

Brienne bowed as the rest of the ladies curtseyed and Jaime finally broke out a laugh; loud, proud and honest. 

“I look forward to someday meeting you in the training yard, my Lady.” He offered as he finished his own bow, gently grabbing the lady's hand and giving it a gentle kiss as a fabled Knight would have done to any young maiden. 

Brienne felt her face burn with embarrassment and something she could not properly name. 

“The honor would be mine.”

And when Jaime looked towards her unreserved and comprehensive eyes, he could see she meant every word. 

  
  



End file.
